Swallow the Knife
by Valtana
Summary: Something that had always been, and yet never existed - a love that never was what it was. Something secret, hidden, and yet much coveted by those who knew. Denial of the necessary. Legolas/Aragorn - Switching POV. Side order of angst and plenty of citrus


I'd never seen him cry

Disclaimer: I don't own much of anything. I am just a penniless writer. Everything belongs to whomever it belongs to. Thank you, Mirrormere for hosting this story.

Authors Notes: Since my little on-shot went over so well, I thought I'd develop something of a back-story. This chapter is set before Aragorn retires for the night, on the eve before he rides with Rohan to the battlefields of Gondor.

Legolas POV

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Swallow the Knife – Chapter One: Before the Mountain, a Soul must Decide

I'd never seen him cry.

Not in all of my many months, wandering at his side through this never-ending world that is so very much our own, had I seen him give into weakness so completely.

I'd completely forgotten why I'd come to see him in the first place.

Now, as I stood in silence at the opening to his tent, I could see his shoulders shaking with the grief of whatever it was that had finally overcome his iron grip on his goals. The very sight of it made my chest clench hard enough to draw my hand to it. Fingers rubbed a slow circle over my heart, as if trying to massage away the emotional pain that I could see etched in his murky gray-blue eyes.

It was in this instant that I began to realize for the first time how truly frail he was; mortality, for all of it's subtleties, was more evident now than ever before in the lines of his face…in the tears that poured freely, silently, over his cheeks. His complete humanity was obvious in the length of his hair, so unchecked in his haste to do for others what they could never hope to do for themselves. His age blindingly apparent way that the lines started to build around his eyes and lips. Shoulders, broad and powerful, nonetheless slumped to a burden that no one, no mortal or immortal creature, should have been forced to suffer.

I knew that if he had been in his full senses, he would have sensed my coming long before I'd ever reached the entrance to his private chamber of cloth and steel. And yet, in this moment of despair, he didn't even lift his eyes to acknowledge my presence. As it were, I suspected that he hadn't even known of my being there yet. Silently as I'd come, I crossed the threshold and let the heavy burlap fall back into place, effectively blocking out the eyes of others. The noise outside once more fell to relative silence as I carefully moved into the tent, though I didn't stray too close to the grieving man. Even in this state, he could have managed to wound me.

It was then that he heard my movements and jumped, lifting his head in his haste to seek a threat if there was one to be seen. When he caught sight of me, something moved behind his eyes that gave my mind a jolt. I could see something bittersweet…something warm and strong, slowly being given over to winter's chill breath. Something that was both joy and sorrow.

_It must be something akin to unrequited love. _

I paused to consider this, and the truth of it came screaming back:

_Indeed, he must be mourning his elf-Queen's passing into the West._

"Aragorn."

So simple a name carried so much meaning: I found my own voice a bit harsher than I'd intended, and it was obvious that he did as well. A hard, shame-filled expression dominated his features as he eased back to sit, rubbing at the tears on his face with great disdain. I tried again, attempting to steal the months of hard combat from my voice.

"What is it that so ails your spirit? These are times of great despair, but there is nothing to be done for such things…nothing to ease it but pressing forward to whatever end."

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he looked as though he really didn't know. I took the moment of comfortable, if contemplative, silence to find a seat on the trunk at the foot of his makeshift cot.

"I can only begin to list, Legolas, the things that weigh my soul. The world of Man is falling. Indeed, if I am the last of my Kin, and my house were to fail, and this is all that I can amount to…what is there?

"As sure as I am of my own shortcomings, there is not a lord who is able enough to lead his own men, and thus I am forced to do it. I speak of this not from selfish pride, for I lost my pride long ago…but of honest knowledge. Legolas, they're depending on me, and I don't even know who I am or what it is that I want or need anymore. How can they expect me to tell them what to do or who to be…I, who can't even recognize my own thoughts anymore!"

He let out a deep sigh, putting his head in his hands and drawing another heavy breath with a quiet shaking of his shoulders before continuing on.

"We ride tomorrow for a great defeat, in which the entire lot of us will come to final end, and will be of no more good to the battle against Sauron. There are few in the multitude who ride out tomorrow who have any real idea about what it is to die, Legolas, least of all at the hands of a cruel and dishonorable enemy. They are not…as we are. They have not seen the Orc march en mass, or seen the bodies that they leave behind. These are men with families whose lives hang in the balance, Legolas…" He sighed quietly.

"Aragorn, we have more than enough to fight for. Frodo and Sam, they need us to…"

"…And still, we have no news of Frodo and Sam. We have no reason to hope against hope that they are still alive, and yet we do. We have no hope for tomorrow. I…" He paused. "As foolish as it sounds, I fear that I shall die without seeing whatever it is that I fight for again, all in favor of a war that I never wanted, nor desired, to be a part of."

"Even if your life fails, there is a world beyond this one. Even in such dark times, there is still the hope of that, when all else fails…"

"…I'm fighting for those who I've never known, Legolas. I'm not their King…I'm a Ranger, where each man is accountable only for the strength of his own arm and fortitude. Their fate rests in my hands, and all that these hands are good for is pushing on, regardless of cause. My guilt alone is enough to crush any kind of valiant ideas that I might have held long enough to survive the long journey thus far."

And that was the truth of it. That was the root of all of his despair. He felt guilty for having to lead others when his own resolve was not a strong as he once thought it to be. Sighing quietly, I reached out to him, placing my hand on his shoulder.

He looked up at me with a quietly pleading expression. Those eyes, which had once been cerulean, now faded into something resembling cold obsidian stone, held something that I didn't quite understand. It was a mystery that even my elvish eyes could not decipher with any kind of clarity.

"Aragorn, you know better than I that there is always hope. In all of my many years, roaming this world as I have, I've never met someone so able to make the world work around his desires. If anyone is able to turn things for the better, it is you."

He stood, shrugging my hand off of his shoulder, and I was left sitting, staring at the far wall of the tent. I turned to watch as his face contracted in concentration. "Tell me what I must do, Legolas, and I will find a way – what is there left that I can do that hasn't already been foreseen and thwarted!" His voice was raising, and a palpable fear cut the air like a hard knife. "I have no ideas left. I either ride to my death tomorrow, or I leave this camp. The latter isn't even a real option, and thus my death is insured."

"You could…" I paused, gauging a reaction. "…Take the road under the mountain. There are men there…who might be…"

"I cannot bare the thought! Placing my future in the hands of murdering thieves who are more likely to kill me than listen to me! And then, where would Rohan be? They would be without our aide, and we would be corpses, sleeping under the mountain with the other undead that dwell there. Such is madness!"

His words, however true they might have seemed in his mind, stung like a blade.

"You assume that I know not where we stand, My Lord." I could hear my voice muttering bitterly. "I know exactly where I am, and I know what my options are. Take my advice, or don't. That choice is yours and yours alone to make. If anyone were to claim those who are damned, then it would be you. If you wish not to attempt it, then that road is lost to all – I do not carry the blood of Isildur in my veins, or else I would carry out the task myself."

"You have no fear within you. Were that I could be so lucky."

Letting out a breath, he sat down again and put his head in his hands. "Forgive me. Self pity overruns my reason." He said quietly, shaking his head and straightening. "Perhaps, then, that is the road that must be traveled." There was a dead silence for a moment, before the wind seemed to ripple the fabric around us like a dome water.

Eyes that I'd long admired moved to my own. There was a moment of lightening as his face took on a different expression. "Lend me your strength, if only for tonight, that I might find the courage to leave on the morrow."


End file.
